it's our own broken acropolis
by skyscraperopera
Summary: This is not love, in any form, or any way. four drabbles, AltMal


**Title**: It's our own broken acropolis  
**Chapter**: 1/1  
**Fandom**: Assassin's Creed  
**Pairings**: Altaïr/Malik**  
****Rating**: PG-13/ light R  
**Genre**: General/Drama  
**Warnings**: Mentions of blood, injuries, brief man/man  
**Disclaimer**: Don't you think I'd be kind of rich if I did?  
**A/N**: I hate myself for this. But, I guess it's like this with almost every first work of fiction you do for a fandom, right? I've felt like this about every work of fiction I've submitted for a new fandom. So here it goes again. Unbetad like heeeell, I didn't even have the patience to go through it myself now, so I'm sorry if it's lots of grammar errors in here D: I hide behind the excuse that English is not my first language –ducks behind excuse–

**Summary**: This is not love, in any form, or any way.  
_I hate you…_

* * *

**i.**  
The orange glow from the torches lit outside creates warm paths upon the walls and deepens the shadows in the bureau. Still, the pale wisp of moonlight that hits them both where they sit on the floor silent highlights Malik's face and Altaïr finally see what he really is – who he's become.

His skin is the paleness of a corpse and the blue bruises under his eyes almost seem punched there. He's like the walking dead and somehow they both know that. But when he notices that the white-clad assassin stares at him with sharp grey eyes he sighs. His voice is barely a whisper but Altaïr picks it up effortlessly. It's Malik after all.

"I'm not giving you credit for this." And he jabs his index finger in the deep cut in his side. Altaïr growls; it's an almost animalistic sound Malik can't say he's neither missed nor desired.

"Shut up."

The sensation of lips on lips and the coldness they bring is almost enough to make Malik pull away, almost.

* * *

**ii.**  
He's dreaming.

Of course he's dreaming, he'd be stupid thinking anything else. _Thinking_, not wishing, he's not wishing for anything. Because who'd be stupid and masochistic enough to wish for pain to come your way?

Nonetheless, when dawn approaches and yet another day begins in the city of Jerusalem Malik can't help but silently patter out to the entrance of the bureau and stare up at the becoming purplish azure sky. He can't deny he's searching for something. On the other hand; he can deny just _what_ it is he's searching for.

He can also deny the fact that every time an eagle soars through the heavens above him, his heart stops beating for the shortest moment. For a faint second he becomes absolutely still, rigid with suppressed wishes. But of course it's all lies, of course it's not true.

"It's never been true." He whispers, just loudly enough to hear it himself other than in the depths of his own mind.

* * *

**iii.**  
The hidden blade sinks into the templar's shoulder at first, and with one swift push and a kick knocking his legs out under him the assassin lowers the body to the ground.

Robért talks, just like the others. But he's not like the others. No, he's something else, something that needs to be taken down, ripped apart and tore open with a snarl on Altaïr's lips and fierce anger boiling in his blood.

"It's for Malik." He mumbles deep in his throat when he sinks the blade into the artery of his neck. When the blood pulsates, coloring the pale skin of the templar's neck scarlet and Altaïr looks up at the endless skies above him it doesn't matter that branches of dead trees hinder his sight and that it's cloudy. It doesn't matter that Richard stands a few feet away watching him and maybe contemplates on killing him; it's all for Malik. The deed is perfect in the settings' imperfection.

"It's all for you." He's too stoic to confess that he's perfectly fine with that and nothing more.

* * *

**iv.**  
As far as Malik is concerned, he's not especially concerned at all. His line of work isn't much for gossip, even if it was he wasn't ever one to care about it. Rumors weren't his thing – facts were his thing.

So when an informer just stopping by slips him that Ibn La-Ahad just _happened_ to cause some ruckus in Acre and barely escaped alive, he shouldn't have cared nor should he have believed it. But he does, and sadly he knows it's because he doesn't want Altaïr to die.

At least, not by any other's hand. They don't deserve to kill him, hell if Altaïr even deserves to die by their hand. Only by Malik's own he should ever die. Because it was Altaïr who dragged Malik down to stoop at such a low level that they are both as worse as the other.

So when the superior assassin stops by Jerusalem after a few days of painful wait on Malik's side, he really wants to control himself. But once again, that is one urge he cannot control.

So when he practically jumps Altaïr from the front, lips crashing into the other assassin's ones and growls "You're mine" into his mouth before biting down on his lip enough to taste copper on his tongue he knows he shouldn't. But what's one to do when they're no longer in control of their actions?

Altaïr doesn't stay, he fights Malik off and flees the scene. It's something Malik hadn't wanted to differ in any way, because that's who they are.


End file.
